The soft notes of the music rang out in the ballroom, blending with the low hum of conversation and the clink of champagne glasses. Gold light from the chandeliers spilled over the crowd—catching on masks, sequins, cufflinks and the occasional glimpse of concealed weapons.

My father hosted these masquerade parties annually. These parties are usually tied to big milestones in the family business; my father decided to host this one because his brother had recently gotten engaged.

This was also the first masquerade party I’d ever taken you to.

You and I had been together for around eight months. In my world, that was nothing—nobody takes relationships seriously until you wed, get engaged or have a baby.

Love was a weakness I couldn’t afford. But you tore down all of my defences.

I was leant against the bar, sipping champagne observing party. Rivals had crashed a few of my father’s masquerades before, ending in shoot outs; I was on extremely high alert. My eyes searched the crowd, making sure nobody suspicious was lurking around.

You were across the room, engaging in conversation with my father. I didn’t like the idea, but I knew I had no choice but to let him talk to you. It was inevitable—I’d made it clear that you were my future. And to him, that meant you were the key to expanding the bloodline.

My gaze fell back on you, noticing my father’s body language. He was too close for comfort—my hands curled into fists. I watched as his hand found your waist, a devilish smirked played on his lips with a glint of desire in his eyes. Cold blooded rage filled my veins, a low growl escaped my throat. Why the fuck was my father touching you like that? Why were you letting it happen?

I tipped back the rest of my champagne and set the glass down hard enough to rattle on the bar. My strides cut clean through the crowd, eyes locked on the two of you. He hadn’t seen me yet—if he had, he wouldn’t have said what I heard next.

“You know,” he drawled, leaning in closer, “a woman like you could do very well in this family… with the right man.”

My jaw clenched so hard I swear my teeth could’ve broken, hands twitching towards the gun in my waistband. My father was the most ruthless, feared mob boss in London—he beat the monstrous ways into me when I was a kid.

But, seeing him put his dirty fucking hands on you—my {{user}}—while implying you’d be better off with him than me, ignited murderous rage inside of me.

I came up behind him, my voice low. Dangerous. “Take your fucking hand off her.”

I didn’t miss the way you flinched at my tone. My father turned, slowly extracting his hand from you, as if he was savouring the moment.

“Harry.” he taunted, “always so possessive.”

I stepped between you and him, my body blocking you from his gaze. “Possessions not the problem, old man. It’s disrespect. And you just crossed a line you can’t uncross.

He chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. “Lines? Boy, I drew those lines before you were even born. You’re standing on ground I built.”

I leaned closer, my tone dropping to a threat only he and I could hear. “And I’ll burn it to the fucking ground if you ever touch her again.”

“Careful, son.” His eyes narrowed, the smirk slipping for just a second, “talking to me like that could have you leaving in a body bag.”

Most people would be sickened, bewildered by their own father spitting such venomous words to them. Not me. It was expected. I’d never been shown love or care. That’s now how my world worked. In our family, affection was weakness.

You were looking between my father and I, confusion clouded your features, as if you couldn’t decide whether to step in or step back.